


Hook, Line, and Sinker

by Hopetohell



Category: Night Hunter (2018)
Genre: Anal Hook, Bondage, Dom/sub, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Predicament Bondage, Reader Insert, Smut, dom reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28381704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: he is straightening, just a bit, testing, pushing, depending on you to guide him through this as sensation grabs him by the throat and shoves him under.Sometimes Walter needs help getting out of his own head.
Relationships: Walter Marshall (Night Hunter)/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Hook, Line, and Sinker

The rope runs from Walter's hair to where the hook is buried in his ass. It pulls his body into a perfect taut bow; his scalp burns and he is _sweating_. He is at the edge of his endurance and _god_ it’s perfect, just a little more; the day is bleeding from him in pearls of sweat that roll all down his skin. He is on fire, enormous and strong and spilling over with frustration. He aches and it is so close to too much. So close, and still he bears it. 

_Walter. Sweetheart. You know how this goes._

Of course he does, but that doesn't make it any less difficult. Or that it gets him any less hard, this ceding of control, this absolute openness that the position forces him into. He could struggle, but he is caught on the razor's edge between two wonderful, awful sufferings. He could relax, open his body, shake the tension from his spine-- but this would pull at his hair. And more: it would bury the hook so deep in his ass as to make it _unbearable._

And like this? If he stays like this, if he holds himself in this curve, knees spread, throat exposed, face and cock pointing toward the ceiling? His muscles burn with strain and sooner or later he will have to give in; sooner or later he'll straighten his spine and he will scream with the sudden overwhelming insistence of the hook driven deeper than he could imagine

_(But not beyond safety, Walter, sweetheart; I love to hurt you but I'd never damage you. Do you see the difference?)_

When you'd prepared him, slow and sweet ( _oh Walter, you do need it, don't you? It's been too long since I had you under my hands_ ) he'd not quite whined but it was a close thing, some kind of desperate animal sound burrowing out through his chest. And _god,_ how he'd tried to remain stoic, to keep the moan bitten back behind his teeth when you'd first breached him with a warm slick finger. When you'd worked him to two with a press and stroke that had his eyes fluttering shut. When you'd teased him for just a moment with cold steel creeping down the cleft of his ass to rest against him where he fluttered and fought to close again. 

The round ball at the end of the hook was a challenge, cool and unyielding, and to see his body swallow it up, to see his hole twitch around the long shaft, that was truly something. And more: to see him test his bonds, to learn this new angle of his body, to watch him figure out inch by inch how far he could go: this had you biting at your lip as you watched the blood pulse into his cock. 

_(Tell me, Walter. How does it feel?_

_Like-- Like I'm trapped. But I don't want to get free. I want--_

_What do you want?_

_I want— I want you to make it hard on me. Make me work. Make it more than I've ever had. Make me--)_

And now.

Now he shines with sweat, with the evidence of his struggle. He shifts, straightening, just for a moment: a brief lapse that makes him gasp, makes his cock pulse under your hand. 

_Please_

It's a small sound, so small; he is all bulk, all strength, and if he chose to he could work himself free from this, but he won't. His wrists twist in their loops of rope, loose enough that he could slip out of them if he wanted, but the ropes are an extension of your embrace and they serve to center him in the midst of overwhelming sensation. His fists clench and he could come just like this, from the strain and ache and the sudden insistent press of the hook against--

_Fuck_

against something that has his eyes so suddenly wide, gaze fixed on you and it could be either a plea or a curse hidden in the epithet on his lips. 

_Sweetheart. You know how to make it stop. Just one word and it’s over._

_No._ Low, strangled, wavering. _Not yet. I can— fuck— oh, fuck. More. More, please, Christ, I_ and he is straightening, just a bit, testing, pushing, depending on you to guide him through this as sensation grabs him by the throat and shoves him under. He is transcendent, your Walter; 

_yours_

he burns with the kind of _too much_ that bleeds out into _just right_ and his mind goes with it; all the stress and heartache of this last case replaced by the purely physical, by the challenge that he sets himself against— and he is _winning._ He is so close, nearly there. He just needs—

He just needs the heel of your hand grinding hard over his length, a tiny adjustment of the hook’s angle with your free hand, and he is _gone._ He is gasping, all his strength rendered kitten-weak by the force of orgasm tearing through him; he slumps and whimpers til you ease the rope from his hair, til he is unbound and empty and leaning heavily on you beneath the quilt you tuck around you both. And for a while Walter thinks of nothing; he only noses at your hair and breathes.


End file.
